Protocol 7 (23 page)

The other members of the crew seemed to be of Mediterranean descent as well, and none of them spoke English—or claimed not to, at any rate. Still, conversation—even among the team members—was kept to a minimum. Most of them enjoyed the warmth of the sun for a few minutes, then found their way to the crew quarters and gratefully accepted the offer of a newly made bunk. They had already discussed this: their time aboard the yacht was a perfect opportunity to catch up on sleep before reaching Malta.

As he watched the others go below, Simon thought deeply about all that had happened last night and in the last two weeks. Although exhausted beyond what his body could bear, he could not sleep. Less than an hour after boarding, he found himself alone, restlessly pacing the deck—forward-aft, aft-forward—and thinking about geostationary satellites, datastreams, and Andrew’s gadgets.

What if they don’t really work? He asked himself. What if they stop working? They had agreed to travel separately on this last leg of the journey, but would that be enough? It was true: following individuals, with or without tech, was easier than following groups, but finding individuals in a sea of seven billion people was far more difficult.

At least that was the theory. And if he was wrong, someone, or many, could die. Max, he thought. Max, what the hell happened to you? I could have used you here. I don’t know if I can do this by myself.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was behind him. Simon turned to find the captain standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He had a package in his hand—something flat, wrapped in wax paper, like a parcel from a butcher shop.

“This is for you,” he said. “It was given to me by…well, it was given to me.”

He passed it over almost briskly, as if he was glad not to be touching it any more. Simon accepted it with a murmured “thank you,” and the captain fled, clearly happy to be finished with his chore. He passed Samantha as she climbed the steps from the crew quarters, rising gracefully out of the shadows like a weary naiad. He put the package in his pocket as she approached.

“Simon,” she said. Her voice was soft and betrayed her own exhaustion. But Simon turned away, not ready for conversation—not now.

“Simon,” she said again and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn back; he kept his eyes fixed on Corsica as the boat pulled away, deeper and deeper into the open sea. “I’m worried about you.”

He still did not turn to her. “Well, I’m worried about you, too,” he said.

She looked around the deck. The sailors were far from them, probably beyond earshot, but she was still careful with her words.

“I know I have been…a handful,” she said. “I probably will be again. And the irony isn’t lost on me: I chose this…destiny…and then came to regret it almost immediately.”

He almost laughed and nodded his head. At least she’s honest, he thought.

“It’s not that I regret my friendship with you, Simon. You know that. Just…”

“It’s more like, ‘be careful what you wish for,’” he supplied. “‘You just might get it.’”

“Exactly.” She pulled gently on his shoulder, forcing him to turn to her. Her eyes were full and stunningly clear. “I love you, Simon,” she said. Before he could respond she put up a hand to stop him. “I know, you don’t love me, not in the same way. We’ve had this conversation already, and not so far from here. But I thought this whole thing would be an opportunity. A chance to remind you how deeply I felt, and how…how easy it would be to reciprocate.”

“It’s not, though, Sam. Not—”

“I know that now,” she said. “It was stupid and immature from the beginning. But that doesn’t change two things for me, Simon. One: I have to live with the consequences of my decision, no matter how much I regret it. And two: I still do love you. I want to protect you more than ever.”

“…Even if I’m constantly putting you in danger?” Simon looked past her out over the water. “It’s not right. I just wanted to find my father. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

She shook her head. “You need to get some sleep. You’re going to collapse soon. There’s nothing that you can do, no problem you can solve between now and the time we reach Malta. So stop trying.”

“But—”

“Rest, Simon. Please. We need you.” She looked straight into his eyes and squeezed his arm. “I need you.”

He looked deeply into her eyes and knew, for the first time, that she would be fine on her own, at least for the next leg of the journey.

They joined the others in the galley, where his team was drinking strong coffee and sampling all the baked goods the cook was happy to supply. Simon sat at the table with them; Samantha stood close behind him with a casual, warm hand on his shoulder.

He pulled the packet from his coat, opened it, and withdrew a sheet of papers. Ryan recognized them immediately.

“Ah,” he said. “They came.”

“They did.”

Simon leafed through the contents of the package very quickly, then handed it over his shoulder to Ryan. Ryan inspected the papers and the passports a bit more carefully, then passed them out to each team member, once again like a dealer distributing cards. They took the individual packets with a strange, wordless solemnity. They all knew, each of them, that the world was about to change again.

Hayden was the first to speak up. “Are you sure these are going to work, Ryan?”

Ryan’s response was quick and convincing. He had obviously been thinking about it. “I can’t guarantee anything,” he said, “but this is the best option we have.”

Hayden grunted, hating to agree, then stuck the papers in his pocket and looked out of the murky window of the boat. The old paved road—the one leading away from the coast—was still above and beyond them.

Simon took only a moment longer to examine his new identity. He could barely make out the name in the dim light of the moving vehicle, but he didn’t care who he was, as long as they reached the rendezvous point for the Munro with plenty of time to spare.

“When we land in Santiago,” Ryan said, “there’s to be no talking, no sharing cabs, nothing. Go to the hotel or inn that is listed in your packet. Stay there until you receive the signal on your safe phones. We will meet again on the deck of the S.S. Munro.”

They all looked at their papers with renewed curiosity, anxious to see where they would be spending the next, solitary leg of their journey. Simon saw that he was set in a hotel with an unpronounceable name on a street which sounded just as odd.

Then something unusual caught his eye.

There was a piece of paper inserted in his new passport—a thick, creamy sheet, exactly like the paper Leon had used for his handwritten note back in Corsica.

What the hell…he thought. Without bringing any attention to it, he pulled the note free and read it quickly. All the others were busy looking at their own documents; no one seemed to notice he had an extra sheet. It read:

When you reach Chile, call a scientist by the name of Nastasia, who will help you on your mission. Do not speak to anyone about this note. It may jeopardize everything.

Who the hell wrote this? he wondered. Doing his best to look inconspicuous, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the note from the study door—the note that had changed his life, that he had kept in his pocket, on his person, since the moment he had discovered it. He compared the handwriting on the two documents, squinting in the dim light of the gallery to be absolutely sure.

No. They were different. Whoever wrote the first note—and it had to have been Leon, he signed it—did not write the second.

Then who…?

He pushed the thought away and carefully stashed all the papers—including the note—in the inner pocket of his coat. The others seemed to have found safe places to store their own documents.

Enough intrigue, he told himself—prayed, actually. Enough secrets.

Suddenly, Simon realized just how tired he was…and imagined just how good a hot shower and a nap would feel.

The hovercraft that pulled out onto the remote island was no unusual experience for Blackburn. He sat blindfolded, escorted by a team of men that he had never seen. He had done this before. Flown off the coast of Argentina for hours; and then onto a hovercraft to different islands each time. It usually took less than two hours to reach his destination once the plane had landed, but for some reason this time it took a bit longer. He was accustomed to what would happen next. He would be blindfolded until he had reached a specific chamber, usually large enough where he could hear the echo of his own voice reverberating.

The Hovercraft came to a complete stop and deflated. Blackburn was escorted off, and in less than fifteen minutes he had entered the chamber. His blindfold was taken off and like always, the room was nearly pitch black. Only a faint glow surrounded his figure and cast the shadow of his body onto the floor.

Blackburn was ruthless, a coldblooded villain in his own right. However, each time he had to confront the chamber, it made him more uncomfortable. He had never seen the ones he answered to, and was never sure if each time might be his last. It was almost as if a fear, greater than he could explain, compelled him and guided his life. He lived completely in two separate worlds, one as a politician in Washington and the other as a servant to powers he could not comprehend. Each time he stood in the chamber, like this very moment, he could sense the silhouettes of the multiple figures that sat around him. He could almost feel their eyes, peering into his back and was never sure if one wrong word would end his life. As always, he was rarely given a chance to repeat his words, so he had to choose carefully when asked. Then like a knife, through the darkness of the air, the voice cut through Blackburn.

“Speak.”

“We are making progress, and I anticipate that within a couple of weeks I will have answers,” Blackburn said, noticing his own voice tremble, as it echoed through the room.

“And the asset you spoke of?” asked the Voice.

“We are very close to making him confess,” replied Blackburn.

“And if he does not?” asked the Voice.

“He must. He is our only asset, and the only one that knows what’s going on.”

“For your benefit, he must confess sooner rather than later. For we have no time.”

“Understood,” said Blackburn.

A minute later he was blindfolded and escorted out of the chamber. He knew that his life was in danger, and the next time there would not be another chance.

It was just past four a.m. when the old-fashioned phone in Simon’s hotel room rang—a long, burring, ugly tone. It didn’t wake him up; he hadn’t been able to sleep at all since he had set foot in Santiago hours before.

He put a hand out to answer it—an automatic gesture, a standard response to stimulus—and then he stopped himself.

Who could be calling him at this time of night? The only people who knew where he was would use the secure phones if they needed to talk to him, not an open line. And even then, they knew better than to call. Anyone could be listening.

His hand was hovering over the handset when it rang a second time. He peered at the tiny screen on the phone, with its crude approximation of caller ID. It told him the call was local—coming from somewhere within Santiago, which made even less sense.

Will answering this jeopardize the mission? he asked himself. If it is someone on the team, for whatever reason, not answering the phone might…

It rang a third time. Seconds before it cut off he thought, What the hell, picked up the handset and put it to his ear.

The voice at the other end did not wait for him to speak. “Simon,” it said in a calm and strong tone.

The voice was familiar. But so much had happened recently, so many changes had taken place that he couldn’t quite place it from a single word on a bad connection.

“Who is this?” Simon asked.

“What do you mean, who is this?!” said the voice on the other end, sounding amused and offended at the same time. “I can’t believe you don’t recognize my voice! Come along: it’s four in the morning, I’m tired and easy to annoy, and you could have at least chosen a more reputable location.”

It’s him, he realized. Simon’s jaw actually dropped open in amazement. “Max?” he said. “Is that you? How did you…” but he stopped himself. It’s still an open line, he thought. Be careful.

“So, are we going to look at that café or what?” Max said easily, as if they were continuing a conversation they’d begun just minutes before. “I have a lot of other projects to design and I just flew in.”

Simon smiled to himself. Clever bastard, he thought. “Sure,” he said, trying to match the casual tone. “Do you want to meet downstairs at nine a.m.? I’ve got the plans, but the owner said the lease has to be signed, so you better impress him.”

“No problem,” Max replied. “But let’s make it eight forty-five. See you in the morning.” He hung up before Simon could utter another word.

Suddenly the ancient handset was heavy as a stone in his hand. He plopped it back in the cradle and slumped back on the bed, excited but utterly confused. He took a deep breath and straightened up. Finally, he thought. Finally.

Minutes later, he composed himself and started to pack his belongings. Max was an unexpected surprise, and a great one, but he still had business to conduct—another appointment to make and keep.

He stopped long enough to pull out the slip of paper he had found with his fake passport and other identification. It took only a moment to key the numbers into his secure phone—no reason to leave a record on the hotel’s number. As he dialed he wondered who, exactly, had put that note in his packet to begin with, and why it was so important.

The phone at the other end never really rang. A beat after he finished keying in the sequence, a soft and slightly accented female voice spoke to him.

“Nastasia.”

Simon was speechless for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, as steadily as he could manage, “I think we need to meet.”

The answer came immediately and without hesitation. “Three thirty at the Longo Café.” Then the phone cut off abruptly.